


there is stardust on your hands and a battlefield in your eyes

by milesmalpractice



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Moulin Rouge AU, a very very loose Moulin Rouge AU actually, as it progresses it will get further and further away from that plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesmalpractice/pseuds/milesmalpractice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, Finnick burnt up and fell a long time ago,” Haymitch interjects, and something in Finnick runs cold.</p><p>A Moulin Rouge inspired AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> So! First fic in the fandom. I have a rough idea of where this is going, if people are interested enough to follow along. Comments and kudos would be lovely.

Finnick stands, head bowed, in the centre of the room, his hands clasped obediently behind his back. Those in the know refer to it as the study, though it looks less like a study and more like a boudoir, although Finnick would never say that. He’s long gotten used to the crimson crushed velvet draped over every surface, the suffocating perfume of roses arranged in vases staged about the room. Finnick thinks half of the money he brings in every week must go on replenishing those damned roses.

“Are you listening, Finnick?” Finnick snaps his head up, long lashes casting dark shadows against the gold of his skin in the muted light. Snow is seated behind his desk, gaze steady and unwavering, and Finnick suppresses a shudder, instead forcing a smile that’s almost too easy to be completely genuine.

“Yes, sir.” The man watches him for a moment longer, and Finnick waits, arms starting to hurt from where they’ve grown stiff behind his back, but he dares not move. 

“As I was saying, we have a politician currently looking to invest substantial funds into our establishment. His daughter will be watching tonight. I know you will do your utmost to ensure she has a positive report to deliver to her father tomorrow morning.” The threat is so clear it could hardly be considered veiled. It doesn’t seem particularly difficult, though - it isn’t the first time Snow has used Finnick to sweeten business deals, nor, he suspects, will it be the last.

“Yes, sir,” he repeats, the stretch in his arms now a dull ache. “I’ll see to it.” Snow’s mouth stretches into a grin, blood red and terrifying, and Finnick blinks once, hard, determinedly holding his gaze. 

“I am so pleased. Make sure your commitments are met.” He plucks a rose from a nearby vase, turns the stem between veined fingers, and holds it out. Finnick hesitates, then slowly reaches forward to take it, skittish as a cat. “You may go.”

Finnick, head ducks, murmurs his thanks and leaves, shutting the door carefully behind him. Johanna is waiting in the hall, arms folded over her chest and a scowl puckered in the corners of her mouth. Wordlessly, she raises an eyebrow at the rose, to which Finnick shrugs, a rueful smile passing over his lips. It’s not the first time Snow has gifted him with a rose, and usually means Finnick should prepare himself for the worst. Johanna rolls her eyes, closes a small, firm hand around his wrist, and drags him into his dressing room, where she whoops and and he laughs as they burn the rose to ashes over a candle. Such small victories are these.

* 

Even if he hadn’t been told that tonight was a special occasion, he would have known twenty minutes into his prep. They cover his torso with swirls of golden paint, and even in the stark light of the studio his skin shines and shimmers with the slightest shift of lithe muscle. His clothing leaves little to the imagination, as usual, but the bronze satin hangs comfortably off the jut of his hipbones, meaning he has little to complain about, even if the fabric barely makes it to mid-thigh. Along his thighs and calves, more metallic is striped, elongating the curvature of muscle, and with thin leather straps around his ribs and collarbones, are fastened a pair of feathered wings, inky black and terrifying. Even Johanna, usually spouting unimpressed sarcasms from her usual spot draped across the chaise in the corner, is lost for words. It takes two assistants to help him into the harness, and he stands with his arms stretched out on either side, testing the balance and give.  

“It’s lighter than I thought it would be,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, then turns to where Cinna is packing away his sewing kit. “Who am I tonight, then? Some kind of fallen angel?”

“Some kind of massive asshole,” comes Johanna’s input, but it’s mostly obscured by a mouthful of cherries, so Finnick pretends he doesn’t hear her. Cinna glances over at him, hands stilling over the tools of his trade.

“Icarus,” he offers, and Finnick raises his eyebrows. “Greek mythology. Flew too close to the sun.” He looks as if he wants to say more, but doesn’t, instead letting the lid of his sewing box snap shut. 

“He drowned, right?” and something in his chest twists uncomfortably, remembers the feel of salt against his skin and the slip of sea foam against his bare legs. “Guess I’d better stay away from water tonight.” Johanna lets out a sharp bark of laughter, some kind of haughty terrier with cherry stained lips.

“Shame for our benefactress if she’s keen on water-sports,” face scrunched into half-sneer, half-smirk.  

Finnick grins at her, face cut into dangerous angles by smooth lines of kohl. “Jealous?” Johanna spits a cherry stone at him in response. It hits him just below his left nipple, and leaves a crimson stain that he doesn’t bother wiping away. 

* 

The crowd loves him. Finnick knows that he wouldn’t be as good at his job as he is if he didn’t enjoy the rush of power being onstage gives him, that feeling of control, having a room full of paying patrons eating out of the palm of his hand. His routine is complicated but he could do it with his eyes closed, and frequently does, sashes of silk passing through his fingers with ease as he catches himself in them and glides effortlessly over the baying audience, a toe skimming the top of a lucky punter’s hat every now and then. Once he has the floor to himself he loses himself in the swell of the music, head thrown back to the stars he swears he can see through the ceiling, limbs arching in the long, graceful strokes of one who has spent half his life cutting through water. There’s manic applause when he’s done, and as he cracks his practiced, self-assured, public image smile, just the right amounts filthy and elusive, he’s joined by others onstage. He sees Gloss elbow Johanna in the ribs, and a quick foot in the arch of his ankle sends Gloss stumbling, and Johanna into barely concealed peals of laughter. He knows he’ll pay for it later, Gloss scowling darkly and giving him the finger, but at that moment Finnick couldn’t care less, throwing his head back and laughing, catching Johanna by the waist and spinning her away from the others.  

“Do you know which one she is?” lips pressed to the shell of Johanna’s ear, and she shrugs, twisting in his grip. She always hates it when he takes the lead.

“Don’t know exactly. She’ll look pretty out of her depth I reckon, those high class girls are all talk, but get them somewhere like this and their innocence forces them into showing their hand.” Finnick smirks, over-balancing her so she’s forced into a dip, the red tips of her hair scraping the stage. The crowd likes that one, the shouts in their corner growing in volume.

“You speaking from personal experience, Mason?” with a wicked twist of his lips, and Johanna rolls her eyes, expression pale and dangerous beneath the layers of make-up and overhead lights. 

“When do I do anything but?” she asks, arching up so their chests brush for a sliver of a second, leaning in close enough to bite down hard on his ear until it throbs. “Effie said she’d have braids or something. Kinda young looking. Here with a chaperone.” Spinning away from him, she grins, sweeping her arm out to the audience. “Take your pick!” she calls, loud enough for some of the punters nearest to Finnick to overhear and start thrusting fistfuls of notes in his direction.  

He kills three quarters of an hour sprawled on a lounge with a group he assumes are in town on business, men with hungry eyes and women with roaming hands, all at least ten years his senior. The wings are a talking point, stretched out across the back of their seats, and nobody asks before they stroke the feathers but Finnick can’t find it in himself to care. It’s not like anybody asks before they touch him. “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for them, it’s the magic worked by my stylist,” he drawls, only half-listening at the predicted protestations of the others, his eyes roaming the club until they fix on a booth at the back. It’s dark, but he can just about make out a slip of a girl, auburn hair braided intricately to sweep the peak of her hairline, watching the controlled chaos of the club with a vague, detached interest, the way a scientist would observe a predictable experiment. She’s young, that’s for sure, and the way her hands fold delicately in her lap is indicative of good breeding. It’s got to be her.  

He excuses himself with a wink and promises he has no intention of keeping, at least not tonight, ignoring their complaints as he weaves towards the booth, the crowd parting around him, watching him go. It’s only another couple of paces to her table before he clocks who she’s with. “ _Haymitch_?” he says in disbelief, and the man shuffles in the booth to face him, bottle halfway to his lips, recognition dawning on his stubble-lined face. “Since when did you become a fucking _chaperone_?” 

Haymitch guffaws, standing up to slap Finnick on the back, and his wings quiver. The girl is staring at them in fascination. “Guess you could call me that, yeah. Just helping a friend out.” Haymitch isn’t exactly a regular, and Finnick can’t quite remember how they met, but their acquaintance stretches back years, and not once has Finnick seen the man doing anything remotely reputable. 

“I thought you were banned from here?” Finnick asks incredulously. Even if he wasn’t banned, it’s not exactly Haymitch’s kind of establishment. The squalors of dive bars on the other side of town was more his jaunt, the type inhabited by impoverished artists and morphling addicts, all whom Haymitch somehow knew by first name. It’s not that Finnick dislikes him - it’s actually infuriatingly difficult to dislike Haymitch, he’s found - but the man doesn’t have a responsible bone in his body. Why someone important would trust the man with their daughter is a foreign concept.  

Haymitch shrugs, tilting his bottle towards the girl. “Seems that ban is lifted when I’ve got classy company. Annie, Finnick. Finnick, Annie,” motioning between the two of them, before taking a swig. Finnick smiles, and offers his hand.

“It’s a pleasure,” though he’s not expecting the guileless smile he receives in return, honest and forthcoming. It’s the most genuine thing he’s seen all night, and, oh. They’re going to eat her alive. It’s a little unsettling, and a little sad, but he bats his eyelashes anyway and stoops to kiss her hand. Haymitch swats him over the back of his head. 

“Alright, alright, enough of that shit. What are you supposed to be anyway, some kind of fucking glorified canary?” Finnick straightens, a haughty tightness to his jaw.

“Icarus, actually,” an eyebrow arched, and Annie stretches a hand out to the feathers before catching herself millimetres before contact. 

“May I?” she asks. It takes a lot to catch Finnick off guard, though apparently sometimes only two words.

“Of course,” and tries not to shiver as he watches her fingertips trace along the ridges, feeling vaguely ridiculous all the while. It’s not like he can feel her touch, although he figures it may as well stem from actually being asked permission. 

“Your wings aren’t made of wax, though,” she’s saying, not looking at him, and he has to lean in slightly to hear her over the thrumming of the club. “So they can’t melt.” She chooses that moment to glance up at him, bright eyed and a playful seriousness dimpled in her cheeks, “you should still stay away from the sun, though. Don’t fly too high, or else you’ll burn up and fall.” 

“Oh, Finnick burnt up and fell a long time ago,” Haymitch interjects, and something in Finnick runs cold, head jerking around to stare daggers at the man. He can laugh about many things, but his own descent into enforced debauchery isn’t one of them, especially when he’s working at that very trade. Annie doesn’t appear to have noticed though, and when he glances back there’s a slight frown marring her features.

“Where did you land?” she asks, and there’s such visible concern on her face that he wants to cry. Instead, he snatches Haymitch’s drink clean out of his hand and downs it in one, ignoring the man’s noise of indignation, and the smile that cuts through his mouth is like ice, lethal and still.

“Nowhere. I’m still falling.” 


	2. Chapter One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and left kudos/commented, you're all lovely and I'm pleased there are at least a couple of people interested in this little 'verse I'm playing with. I'd love to hear from more of you though, so don't be afraid to leave a comment if you're enjoying what I'm writing - or not, if you've got anything constructive! Really, I'd just love to hear from you guys.
> 
> A quick note - as you'll probably guess from things mentioned in this chapter, it's not set in the 1890s, like the film Moulin Rouge is. It really is just loosely based off it. But the plot does kick in at least a little here, so you can get a bit more of an idea of where this is going.
> 
> That's it! Hope you guys like it. You can comment here, or message me on Tumblr at courfeyracesque. Cheers folks. x

Finnick stays for a couple of drinks, listening to Haymitch’s bawdy jokes and Annie’s surprised bursts of laughter. He tries putting his hand on Annie’s thigh once or twice, but he’s met with a wide-eyed, curious expression each time, and once Haymitch catches on to what he’s doing there’s no end to the barrage of teasing. “Listen,” Finnick says, leaning in so the bow of his lips brushes Annie’s ear, resisting the urge to smirk when he feels her shiver in response. “How about we get out of here, hmm? I can take you backstage, show you around a little, go somewhere more private.” Annie’s eyes flicker over him, then to where Haymitch is sat opposite.

“Yes,” clearing her throat, “yes, that sounds lovely.” Finnick smiles widely.

“It does, doesn’t it?” and stands, offering her his arm, which she accepts. Even in heels, she only comes to his shoulder, but her grip on his arm is firm and sure. As they leave, Haymitch calls something after them which Finnick doesn’t catch, but makes Annie giggle into the heel of her palm. “What was that?” he asks her, but she shakes her head.

“Nothing,” she says, and he decides to leave it, even though she’s doing a poor job of trying not to laugh. He leads her through the crowd to where there is a door obscured by a veil, and holds it to the side as she passes through ahead of him. Immediately there is a stagehand by him, deftly unbuckling the straps and lifting the wings from his back. His shoulders ache a little, but it’s not worse than anything he’s had before, and to be honest he actually liked what he was wore tonight. 

“That’s a bit better,” he says, smiling as he turns back to Annie, but she’s looking at the raised red marks left behind by the harness. 

“Did it hurt?” she asks, reaching out to brush her fingers along one of the welts. He holds himself very still, as if not wanting to startle a small bird.

“No, but it’s kinda freeing to have them off,” carefully, making sure his smile is still intact. Rule number one is never complain to a client. Annie doesn’t seem much concerned about sticking to any rules though, her fingertips deviating from the welts to trace along the line of his clavicle. 

“The gold is nice,” she says, not looking up at him, “I liked the wings, too, but I’m not sure about the harness. Did Cinna do this?” asking as she follows a particularly intricate swirl of paint down his sternum.

“You’ve met Cinna?” he asks, surprised, and she glances up at him, smiling.

“Not yet, but I’m looking forward to.” She’s still tracing the designs, as if committing them to memory.

“He’s very talented.” Finnick isn’t sure what else to say. “Shall we go upstairs?” Annie nods, dropping her hand with what looks like reluctance and taking a step back. Fitting his hand to the small of her back, he guides her through the corridors and up three flights of stairs. There wasn’t a room specifically booked for them, but he knows which ones are likely to be free, and this early in the night he’s got his pick of the best. “This one should suit us fine for now,” letting the door swing open and ushering Annie in, discreetly locking it behind them to save anyone barging in. Most of his clients value their privacy, and Annie doesn’t strike him as an exhibitionist. 

“It’s very nice,” she says politely, slipping out of the jacket she’s been wearing and folding it neatly over the back of a divan. Her bare shoulders are almost translucent in the dim lamplight, the deep auburn of her hair providing a sharp contrast against her skin. Finnick hovers by the door for a moment, watching her movements, how she perches on the edge of the divan and folds her hands in her lap, much like she was sitting when he found her. There’s something not quite right about the situation, and it bothers him that he can’t put his finger on it. Finnick has always considered himself to be particularly adept at reading people, a skill he has honed since his time at the club. Then again, she might just be shy. There’s a silk robe hanging on a hook by the door, and he slips into it, the glossy dark fabric just covering the middle of his thighs, no more. Sauntering over to where she’s sat, he reclines next to her, reaching across to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. A bemused smile flickers across her face, but she lets him do it, which he considers a win on his part.

“I find you incredibly intriguing, Annie,” voice deliberately low, and Annie laughs a little.

“What makes you say that? You don’t even know me.” Finnick shrugs, stretching his arm across the back of the divan, languid movements letting him brush her shoulder with practiced fingertips.

“I’m very good at reading people,” not a lie. “I just feel like there’s more to you than what’s on the surface. You’re a mystery, I like that. I have so many questions.” For a split second, Annie looks like she’s trying not to giggle again, but she manages to pull her mouth into a straight line.

“So, ask me.” There are voices from down the hall, and Annie glances behind him expectantly, shoulders tensing a little beneath his fingers.

“It’s alright,” he tells her, his soothing tone accompanied by a slight increase of pressure against her shoulder, fingers rubbing along the firm line of muscle. “You don’t have to be nervous, nobody is going to disturb us here. I can promise complete discretion, both for you and your father.” Annie frowns, eyes darting back to focus on him.

“My father?” she asks, blinking owlishly across at him. Finnick nods, smiling.

“It’s alright, don’t be embarrassed. We often see clients who have had their evenings arranged externally, frequently by family members. It’s not at all out of the ordinary.” She’s still looking unconvinced, so he leans in, as if sharing a secret. “Although,” he whispers, “I’ve not been quite so enraptured with any of them as I am with you.” Annie fixes him with a look which is half fond, half amused, and he’s momentarily thrown, not expecting it. With any other client they’d be melting beneath his touch by this point. But the sound of a key sliding into the lock has them both turning their heads, and a familiar scowl appears from behind the door. 

“What the _fuck_ are you playing at, Odair?” Johanna hisses. “I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes attempting to placate a borderline hysterical Effie. I do not have the patience for any of this.” Annie is slipping away from him, picking her coat up from the divan and draping it over her bare shoulders.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” she says quietly, eyes flickering from Johanna to Finnick, who holds out his hand and shakes his head.

“Wait a minute,” he says, “hold up, what’s going on here?”

“What’s going _on_?” The look on Johanna’s face is incredulous. “What’s going on, Odair, is if you don’t get your ass down to where Effie’s got that fucking politician’s daughter waiting in the next fifteen seconds, there’s going to be hell to pay.” Finnick makes a strangled noise of exasperation and waves his hand at where Annie is fiddling with the cuffs of her jacket.

“She’s here! She’s right fucking here, Jo, calm down!”

Johanna looks at him like he’s an imbecile at the same time that Annie murmurs, “Um,” from behind him. Finnick whips his head around to where Annie is chewing her bottom lip and looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“Is there something I’m missing here?” 

Johanna huffs out a sigh. “You’ve got the wrong girl, Odair. Christ, I leave you alone for five minutes and—”

“You said she had a braid!” Finnick splutters, glancing back at Annie, who to her credit looks genuinely apologetic, but is also trying not to laugh. “You— all you said was she had a braid, Jo. And that she was young and had a chaperone, and I saw her with Haymitch, and thought—”

Johanna gives a shriek of laughter. “ _Haymitch_? You thought _Haymitch_ was the chaperone? Fucking hell, were you actually born yesterday?”

“Annie has a braid,” he says weakly, and Annie smothers a giggle into the exposed side of her wrist. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, vaguely hurt, brow furrowed in confusion.

“I didn’t know for sure,” she says slowly, wrapping her arms around her middle and shrugging. “I thought you were just… you were really sweet, and trying so hard, and Haymitch implied that you were a little… odd, at first, so—”

“Bet his language was a trifle more colourful than that,” Johanna says, grinning wickedly, and Finnick shoots her a filthy look. He wants to be mad at Annie, too, but she’s looking at him so earnestly that he can’t quite manage it.

“Besides, I thought you were going to leave, soon,” Annie finishes, and Finnick blinks.

“What?” 

“I thought— Haymitch didn’t speak with you?” Finnick shakes his head, and a deep flush spreads over Annie’s cheekbones. “Oh. He said— um. Well, I’m an artist, and I’m currently really interested in colour and design in relation to physicality, and he said Cinna might have some work for me.”

“You’re here for Cinna?” Finnick’s voice is growing more and more high pitched. Annie bites her lip again.

“Yeah, I thought you were going to take me to him.”

“And instead you tried to fuck her,” Johanna chirps from the doorway. She’s looking far too happy about this turn of events. 

“Oh, god.” Finnick is shaking his head as he backs away from Annie, knocking into a small table and a vase in his effort to put space between the two of them. “I am so - _so_ \- sorry, Annie, so sorry.” Annie shrugs again, a funny little smile playing across her mouth.

“It’s fine,” she says, “I didn’t really mind. You should go, I don’t want you in trouble because of me.”

Johanna is still grinning. “Yeah, come on, you great seductress. Unless you actually want Effie to have an aneurysm, which admittedly, would be pretty fun to watch, but let’s not do it when your career is at stake, yeah?” Finnick looks helplessly at Annie, re-knotting his robe around his waist with clumsy fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he wants to say more, but Johanna has sighed and leaned into the room, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him out of the room.

“It’s fine, honestly,” Annie is still wearing that same odd smile, “I’ll see you around, Finnick,” and the door slams shut. He lets himself be dragged up the corridor and down two flights of stairs, following Johanna blindly, paying no heed to where they’re going.

“Right,” Johanna says, stopping in front of a door. She peers up at him, licking her thumb and wiping at something near his left temple, almost taking his eye out. “You’re a mess. Let’s hope your girl likes the debauched look, otherwise she’ll be pissed.”

“She’s not my girl,” Finnick protests, giving only a token wriggle away from her impatient thumb, and Johanna arches an eyebrow.

“Who is, then? That ginger waif you had up there? Jesus, Finnick, was she even legal?”

Fuck. He hadn’t thought about that. “You’re my girl, Jo, you know that,” giving her his best smile, and Johanna folds her arms across her chest and lets out an indignant huff, but he can see her soften ever so slightly.

“I’ll take care of Effie. You just go do your thing.” Finnick nods, dropping a kiss on her hairline and letting his hand rest on the doorknob.

“Thanks, really. Sorry. I owe you one.” Johanna gives him a look, but she’s smiling again, albeit reluctantly. 

“Yeah, yeah. Get in there.” So he does, apologies ready on his tongue as he lets the door snick shut behind him. There’s a girl sat on the sofa, flicking through a newspaper, dark hair braided away from her face. 

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” and it’s not his best entrance, but he’s had a rather trying evening. The girl glances up at him.

“It’s fine.” She sounds bored. Heading over to the bar in the corner of the room, he makes sure to surreptitiously loosen the tie on his robe, before turning back to her, hand clasped around the neck of a champagne bottle. 

“Can I interest you in a drink?” he purrs, trying his best smile, but the girl is looking back down at her paper, and doesn’t seem to hear him. Feeling superfluous, Finnick clears his throat, lips twisted into a coy smirk when she looks up at him.

“Oh. Sure, thanks.” And she goes back to her paper. He’s stunned for a minute, champagne bottle dangling forgotten from one hand. Is she playing some kind of game with him because he was late? He’s dealt with sociopaths before, but never have they acted so outwardly disinterested. Hell, he’s got a whole lot of thigh on display right now, and she hasn’t even noticed. He’d be offended if he wasn’t so puzzled. Pouring the champagne into two flutes, he carries them back to where she’s sat, making sure to swing his hips as he walks, but it’s like she’s forgotten he’s in the room.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been officially introduced,” he says, offering her the glass, and she finally sets her paper aside with a frown, taking the glass and studying it for a moment for taking a tentative sip. She screws up her face as soon as the liquor hits her tongue, and Finnick bites back a laugh. Christ, he hopes this one is legal. “My name is Finnick.”

“I know who you are,” she says automatically, decisively setting her champagne glass down on the side table. He waits for her to give her name, but she’s looking past him, out the window, as if she’d rather be anywhere other than here.

“May I know your name, or is mystery part of the game?” he tries, but even he knows that he’s getting a little desperate. Usually it takes nothing but a well-timed eyebrow quirk, and his clients are shedding their clothes and making demands of him. He has no idea what to do with this girl, and instead of finding it liberating, he’s lost. 

She examines him for a moment, gaze unflinching, as if deciding whether or not to answer him. “Katniss,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, Katniss,” Finnick starts to lean in, feeling his robe slip down from one shoulder to expose one side of his chest, “would you like it if—” 

“Listen, I’m not here for that,” she cuts in abruptly, and Finnick blinks. 

“I’m sorry?” is all he manages. Katniss is looking at him with a look of poorly disguised embarrassment - for him, he suspects, not for her. Feeling rather exposed, he sits back, tugging the robe back over his shoulder, and crosses his arms. 

“I'm not here for your... services, or whatever. We don’t have a lot of time.” She examines her watch, a worn leather strap with a cracked face, completely out of sync with her dark blue dress and glittered heels. “You were supposed to be here forty five minutes ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry, there was a mix-up. I wasn’t told much information about you, so I had to go by a very vague description,” he knows he’s babbling, but he can’t seem to stop himself, even though Katniss is giving him a look like he’s something dragged into the house by a feral animal. “There was a girl, and she had a chaperone, and I knew the guy, so I thought—” 

“Who was it?” It’s the first time she’s looked interested all night, her voice sharp and demanding.

“Just this guy, he’s kind of a… Haymitch Abernathy?” Katniss recoils, her face a mixture of surprise and disgust.

“ _Haymitch_?” Finnick is taken aback.

“Wait, you know him?” She ignores him.

“You thought a supposedly influential politician would trust his daughter to _Haymitch_? In this place?” This is the last thing Finnick needs. He’s already got Johanna for this.

“How the hell do you know Haymitch?” Katniss waves her hand, straightening her dress awkwardly and trying to compose herself.

“That’s irrelevant. I need to set up a meeting with you.” 

“Isn’t that what this is now?” Finnick asks slowly, and Katniss rolls her eyes.

“Not with me. I’m here on behalf of someone else. What do you know about Plutarch Heavensbee?”

“Never heard of him.” It looks like it is causing Katniss physical pain to not roll her eyes at him again.

“I don’t have time to give you a full background. When is your next day off?”

Finnick is so far out of his depth. “I mostly have days free, I only really work nights, unless there’s a special engagement,” he says faintly, and Katniss nods, pulling a tiny slip of paper from somewhere in her dress and handing it to him.

“Tuesday, then. Eleven o’clock. Do you know the address?” He glances down at the paper, and in neat handwritten print is an address. It’s on the other side of town, but he knows the general area.

“Yeah, I think so.” 

“You’ve read it? Do you remember it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says testily, “I’ve got it, okay?”

“Fine,” says Katniss, and leans back in her seat. “Eat it.”

It takes him a second to process what she’s said. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Nobody can know about this. You’ve said you remember the address. So eat it.” Finnick lets out a humourless laugh, shaking his head.

“Listen, honey, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing at, but if you think you can just—” In one fluid movement, Katniss is standing over him, slamming the palm of her hand into the wall above his head. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s sudden enough to stop him talking.

“Listen to me very carefully,” she says, and her voice is low and pretty scary for a girl who looks like she’s never worn heels before tonight, “you might’ve gotten pretty good at the acting thing, but I’ve read your file, and I know you’re not here by choice. I know what Snow has done to get you all here, and I know how to get you out and shut this place down. So if you want to ever get out of his hellhole, you will do as I say. Understand?”

Finnick sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it. It could be a trap. It could be a way of Snow testing his loyalty. This could be a huge mistake. But if there’s a chance at freedom, even the slightest shot, of course he’s going to take it.

“Yeah,” exhaling, and runs a trembling hand through his hair. “Yeah, okay. Sure, why not.” Katniss steps away, smoothing down her dress.

“Good. Tuesday. Eleven AM. Don’t be late.” She checks her watch again, then reaches out to the side table and raps her knuckles four times against the mahogany. The ensuite door opens, and a man steps out. Finnick jumps back in his seat, yelping a little at the sudden intrusion.

“Everything alright?” the man asks, and Katniss nods.

“Yeah. We’re done here.”

“Was he in there the whole time?” Finnick asks shrilly, and Katniss looks at him like he’s an infant.

“You didn’t think I’d come in here with no back-up, did you?” She’s smart, he has to give her that, even if she is infuriatingly patronising. He jerks his head towards the man, who’s clad in a plain navy suit and tie. 

“I take it this is your chaperone?” Katniss nods, and the man steps forward, holding out his hand.

“Boggs.” 

“It’s a pleasure,” says Finnick drily, and shakes his hand. Katniss is glancing out the window again, and when she turns back, Boggs has fished some sort of communication device out of his pocket. 

“We’re being picked up next street over in ten minutes.” 

“We’d better go then.” She takes a step, but overbalances in her heels and needs to steady herself against the wall so she doesn’t fall down. Finnick tuts, stretching back across the sofa.

“Looks like you might need to go back onto training wheels, there,” he comments, making no move to help her. Katniss shoots him a dirty look.

“Eat it.” It takes a moment to realise she’s talking about the slip of paper still clutched in one hand, and he rolls his eyes, crumbling it into a ball and obediently pushing it past his lips. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever had in his mouth, but he pulls a face, mostly for her benefit, and then washes it down with the rest of his champagne.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic. Tuesday morning, eleven o’clock,” and unsteadily stalks past him, and out of the room. Boggs follows, giving Finnick a nod, before shutting the door behind them. He’s alone, and his mouth still tastes like the inside of a photocopier. 

“Well, fuck,” he says unsteadily, and pours himself another glass of champagne. 


End file.
